One Sword and a World of Troubles
by WhiteMoon56
Summary: "Lucina is twenty-one, and not a single one of her friends is young anymore." The future children's war is a desperate feat, fragmented by memories and, eventually, choices.


**A/N: I recently replayed Awakening, and I just had to write about it. This is my own personal prologue. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Lucina is four, and the castle is her whole world._

 _A two-year-old Morgan follows her through the hallways, sometimes tangling his wiggly fingers in her perfect dress. She swats him away._

 _"Make him go away, Mama!" She bats at her brother's hand again, this time connecting, harder than she meant to. A small, swift smack echoes in her ears. Morgan starts to cry._

 _"Lucina!" Mama's voice is sharp, sharper than the swords on the walls. She catches up with the two of them easily, legs longer and eyes narrowed. Lucina sticks her lips together. Mama picks Morgan off the floor, and he tangles a hand in her hair, tears stopping right away. His fingers are like snow in Mama's silvery-blonde strands. Lucina has always loved Mama's hair._

 _Now, though, Mama's eyes are dark. "Apologize to your brother."_

 _Lucina blinks. If he wouldn't have been so close…_

 _"Lucina…"_

 _"I'm… sorry, Morgan." She tilts her face up to meet his wide, blue-black eyes. Like thunderstorms, Morgan's eyes. Like Papa's._

 _He blinks back at her, stares. Mama bounces him a little, and his lips do that thing where he looks like he just ate a lemon, but he might smile. Lucina can never really tell what he thinks._

 _"There… all better," Mama says, locking her wrists around Morgan's legs and resting his head on her shoulder. Lucina rocks on her soft, soft slippers and picks at the ends of her hair._

 _"Can I go play?"_

 _Mama nods, smiling. "Yes… go ahead."_

 _Maybe Gerome is here today. Or Severa. Owain? Owain's loud though. Brady… Brady's weird._

 _Lucina runs. She'll find someone. Mama calls after her to be careful, to not go far._

 _She won't. The castle is plenty big._

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and the castle is not big enough.

She blinks out of her memories of this hallway, foggy and faded and the smile lines in Mother's face not hers. She listens to her boots click out a pattern on the demolished, jagged stone. War… so much _war._ Naga, she had been so _young._ So innocent, in that frilly dress with those lovely shoes.

The entire wall of the castle is gone now, obliterated in some attack that blends with the others, at this point. Each battle, now, just a blend of blood and steel and the faint, soft humming Falchion makes when she swings it.

Like that lullaby Mother used to sing… so long ago.

 _Naga._ She had been so young.

* * *

 _Lucina is six, and she_ hates _thunderstorms._

 _She has always hated thunderstorms._

 _Papa's and Morgan's eyes are this color, this scary, blinding blue-black-darkness. But they are nice. Papa's eyes are always kind. And, well, Morgan is nice sometimes. He's annoying, too._

 _But the thunder… why is the thunder so_ scary _?_

 _She huddles beneath the blankets in her bed, soft and fluffy but not safe, not enough. She's promised herself she won't cry. She's brave, she's a princess, and princesses_ do not cry.

 _…The thunder_ is _scary, though. And she doesn't like it. It's nothing like the sky usually over Ylisse. It's some new monster, something big and angry swallowing the sun._

 _On the next_ cracka-boom _, she pulls the blanket over her head. Something squeaks in the darkness. The door? She_ mmmmhhmms _, but doesn't cry. Someone sighs,_ oh's.

Mama?!

 _"Lucina, princess, I'm here."_

 _"Mama!"_

 _Mama's weight on the bed is a comfort, and Lucina drops the blanket just as a jolt of lightning cuts across her mother's features. She throws herself across the bed into waiting arms that wrap her tight and murmur into her hair, rocking her back and forth._

 _"You're okay, Lucina. I'm here… I'm here." The rocking continues, and Lucina closes her eyes, squeezes them tight and shut against the lashing and the rain. "Do you want me to sing?" Mama asks, the words warm._

 _She nods, wrinkling Mama's dress. A soft hand begins stroking her back in small circles. Her mother's voice is gentle and soft, rolling the words through the air._

" _Little child, be not afraid, the wind makes creatures of our trees, and the branches to hands. They're not real, understand, and I am here tonight. And some day you'll know, that nature is so. This same rain that draws you near me, falls on rivers and land, and forest and sand, makes the beautiful world that you see, in the morning…For you know, once even I was a little child, And I was afraid, But a gentle someone always came, To dry all my tears, Trade sweet sleep the fears, And give a kiss goodnight…"_

 _The words send her to sleep. She thinks Papa comes in, maybe, his voice is so far away. He and Mama speak; they sound sad. But Lucina sleeps anyway, happy and safe._

 _It doesn't last._

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and she still hates thunderstorms.

These days, however, she is not afraid. The only thing the rain does now is spear her heart a little deeper, a little closer to being the thing that causes her to join Father and Mother, wherever they are. She places a hand on the hilt of Falchion, thinks of Father. Outside the ruined castle, the sky worsens, grows darker and more sinister.

Lucina finishes her mother's song, her voice lonely and echoing as she continues walking. Her boots click. Her voice shakes, just a little. _"…Well, now I am grown, And these years have shown, Rain's a part of how life goes. But it's dark and it's late, So I'll hold you and wait, 'Till your frightened eyes do close. And I hope that you'll know, That nature is so. This same rain that draws you near me, Falls on rivers and land, And forest and sand, Makes the beautiful world that you see, In the morning. Everything's fine in the morning. The rain will be gone in the morning,_

 _But I'll still be here_

 _In the morning…"_

She falls silent, letting the notes ring over the stones. She's not sure why she chose the ruined castle as a hideout. Grima will look here, eventually. He'll wizen up, eventually. The peace they have now is so fragile her voice alone could shatter it.

Maybe she laughs at that. It would be the first time in a while.

"That song…."

Her head snaps up, cracks around at the sudden voice, and Falchion shudders steel between her hands. So prepared, so terrified. They've been discovered, someone is dead, someone is bleeding… they're too _young…_

"Lucina!"

… _Morgan._

"Don't… _Naga,_ Morgan, don't do that!" She lets Falchion fall back to her side, the sight of it inches from Morgan's neck ice in her veins. He stares at her, nineteen and tall with Father's eyes in a face written by war. She breathes. He breathes, the beginnings of Arcthunder sparking between his fingers. Falchion returns to its sheathe. Outside, the sky gets ever darker.

"That…" Morgan says, and it's low and a warning and younger-sibling concern in one syllable. "That… _song."_

"I know. I'm… forgive me. I shouldn't have. I just… ah, Gods, Morgan, why are we here?" She's overwhelmed by the sudden urge to stamp a foot, throw a tantrum, be a child, for just a little bit longer. Lucina grits her teeth together, speaks through them like locked gates. "I couldn't think of anywhere else."

"…Used to be a fortress, once," Morgan murmurs, folding long fingers into the pockets of his overcoat, Mother's coat, sewed and ripped and sewed over and over until the wine-purple faded to ash-grey, like the sky. Weeping, old, faded, like the world.

"… _Used_ to be." She crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, trying not to think too hard.

Which always works _so very well._

* * *

 _Lucina is ten, and Mama and Papa do not come home._

 _Morgan clings to her arm, eight years of love and care fading just as Lucina's ten so easily do. Frederick looks scared, grey eyes wide and cheeks pale, having just told her so. Severa pokes her father's armor, brown locks nearly reaching the ground as she tips her head. "Daddy? Are you okay?"_

 _Frederick nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. Severa arches an eyebrow with amazing height. Lucina feels sick, like she ate too much. Morgan holds her tighter, knuckles turning white and heat beginning to simmer beneath his palms. She knocks him with her hip, and soothing wind breathes over the burns. He presses his nose into her shoulder. "Sorry…"_

 _"Shh."_

 _They're not coming home, is all her brain can think. Not ever, never again. Papa won't have any more sword tricks to teach her. Mama's never going to sing again._

 _What happened, Frederick? Where are they? Why didn't you save them? She wants to scream, she wants to scream her throat raw and cry and shake the too-calm knight until he understands. But Morgan still holds her, and he still needs her._

 _Lucina blinks back her tears and presses her lips into a perfect, thin line. She's already starting to forget what their faces looked like, all the little details. What does Papa sound like? How gentle is Mama's singing? It scares her, how fast they start to disappear._

 _…She will not cry. She will not shake. She is a princess, and they do not cry. She is an older sister, and they do not shake. Morgan's digging fingers are starting to hurt._

 _Frederick's pacing, now. Cordelia also hasn't come back… Virion is speaking in low, muffled tones. He keeps staring at her. People are moving around her, but she's holding Morgan and he's holding her, and they don't… they can't do anything else._

 _"Luci? Mama and Papa…left? Why?"_

 _"They didn't mean to. Grima… made them."_

 _"…Why?"_

 _She doesn't know. She never seems to know. Morgan starts to cry, silent, so silent tears._

 _Lucina will not… cry._

 _And then Frederick is handing her Falchion, handing her Papa's sword, and his eyes are too too bright and his jaw is so tense it's twitching. "This is yours now, little warrior. Yours. Never let it go."_

 _Falchion is as tall as her, too big and too heavy and… oh,_ Papa. _No. Dear Naga, please give him back, give them back. Something snaps way down low in her ribcage, so loud she's sure Morgan hears it._

 _Frederick hands her brother Mama's coat, the fabric darkened with what must be soot or ash or dust or something, anything. Morgan knits his fingers into the material and cries harder, pressing it to his cheeks. His sobs turn into wails, ringing through the room._

 _Lucina… will not cry._

 _Cherche dashes over and bundles Morgan into a hug, tucking his head into the crook of her neck and murmuring soothing words. Gerome watches Lucina from a shadowed corner, like usual. His eyes are eerily blue in the light, scarily so, like he's a monster. He doesn't blink._

 _She doesn't feel anything, she doesn't feel Falchion weighing her down with responsibility and Papa's voice. Morgan cries harder, louder. He keeps one hand wrapped around Lucina's arm, like she's all he has left._

… _Because she is._

 _And she's too young to be Exalt._

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and she has nothing left to be Exalt of.

Morgan kicks a jagged rock with a travel-worn boot. The remnants, the ashes, of what they had. Children of war had no time for games, no time for fun. The swordplay became real, the sorcery deadly. Lucina thinks of blue-black fire in her brother's eyes and almost misses his low laugh.

"We're losing, aren't we, Luci?"

The nickname is ashes, long forgotten. Morgan fiddles with the collar of his coat, a nervous habit, his eyes flicking to hers once, then twice, while he waits. Her silence seems to be enough, because she cannot find the words to answer his question. She doesn't think she ever will.

He sighs, laces his fingers together behind his head, and closes his eyes. The shoulders of Mother's coat pull tight against his, almost too small, and Lucina bites her lip. They shouldn't have to endure this… they shouldn't have had to watch each of their parents never return, buried or burned or, like Mother, never found at all.

"I thought so. We've been losing for a long time, I think. Longer than I remember, since…" he trails off, words hitching. "…yeah. Losing."

They'd lost so much.

Lucina doesn't have words anymore, they're strange and evasive. When did Morgan become so old? When did she? She lets her eyes trail the length of the crumbling stone wall, but she notices Morgan watch her again, dropping his hands back to his sides. His hair sticks up in the back, where his wrists had been locked, and he's eleven again, weak Thunder crackling between his fingers and young steel in his eyes.

Lucina is suddenly very, very tired. She's been strong for… years. So many years. She closes her eyes, breathes, long and deep. There's a shuffle of fabric, maybe Morgan moved.

"…You can cry, y'know."

Her eyes fly open again, meeting that blue-black stare, Father's stare, like thunderstorms. Morgan smiles, the gesture ghosts and daylight. "I won't laugh at you."

Oh, Morgan. Lucina blinks, returns his smile, but hers is dry and brittle, cracking across her lips. She's been suppressing her tears for so long, she's not sure she remembers how to cry. Her hand drops back to Falchion's hilt and closes tight, the feel of the blade a strong reminder of… of it all. Everything. But her eyes are still dry.

"We haven't lost… not yet. I will not believe it lost until I see Mother and Father again…"

The look Morgan flashes her is repressed, unsure. The smile is gone. He slings an arm around her shoulders, head tipped, blue hair hanging over his gaze. He's taller than her… when did that happen? "You believe that, really? Because you don't have to lie to me anymore… I'm not breakable."

She exhales, a breath she had not realized she'd been holding. "…Morgan," and his name is exasperated, lost, old, real, desperate.

He releases her, placing that hand back into one of his pockets and nodding, sharply, once. "Yeah, I know, it's okay. It's habit, at this point. I know." He flexes the fingers of his free hand, Arcwind, this time, stirring the dust on the floor and rippling Mother's coat. "Keep morale up, and all."

What made her brother so bitter? …It's a rhetorical question, he has every right to be bitter, and lost, and angry. Lucina understands, all of their ragtag survivors understand. They all had to grow up too soon, they all had to fight too young. Falchion seems to grow heavier in its sheathe.

"Just… Luci, talk to someone." Morgan throws her the suggestion over his shoulder, turning to leave. "We can handle it." And then he is gone, footsteps echoing lonely in the ruined hallway. Lucina breathes, chest tight, terrified. She's _too_ _young to be Exalt._

When did Morgan become so old?

* * *

 _Lucina is thirteen, and Frederick is dying._

 _They have fewer and fewer healers as the war continues, endless, and he's bleeding, so much, everywhere. Severa's lips are tight, thin, colder than Lucina has ever seen. Maybe she's trying not to cry, too. Frederick holds his daughter's hand, his fingers pale and shaking. He leans toward Lucina._

" _Come here, my lady."_

 _She comes closer. His voice is so soft. His other hand takes hers. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, not now, but someone… someone has to know." His eyes are bright; Lucina sees tears. Severa holds him tighter._

"… _Frederick? What's wrong?"_

" _Your father, he… Chrom, he… he was betrayed." The words are so soft, but they shake the ground she stands on, echoing through her head. "I failed to see it, failed to protect him the only time it really mattered at all. I know not who, but it was not a Grimleal that killed him. The wound was so deep, so precise; he must not have put up any resistance." His breathing is labored, now, shallow. Severa mumbles something under her breath, something that sounds… terrified. Her knuckles are white in the corner of Lucina's eye._

"… _Betrayed?" she repeats, unable to think. Who? Why? Her father was a wonderful person, incredible, understanding, kind. Who among the Shepherds wanted him dead? What… what would they have gained from his death? She grits her teeth together. She… will not cry. She will not._

" _I am sorry… that I failed him, my lady…" Frederick's voice is a whisper, now, and he turns to Severa, releasing Lucina to hold both of his daughter's hands. Severa's normally cold face is cracking at the seams, drops like crystals in her eyes._

" _Father…!"_

" _Dear daughter, you are strong…"_

 _Lucina leaves the tent. Falchion sits on her hip, almost scraping the ground, still a little too big and a little too heavy. But only a little. Morgan is sitting under a tree, the sky tinged grey, wickedness and doom like ashes in the air. A simple tome sits open in his lap, Thunder zinging from fingertip to fingertip._

 _He'll be a skilled mage one day… Lucina wishes Mother could see it._

" _Luci!"_

… _She's not going to tell him. Not now, he's too young. He deserves to stay young for a little while longer._

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and not a single one of her friends is young anymore.

Something crashes outside the wall. Severa screams her name, drawing each syllable into a petrified, high-pitched keen, unusual for her. _"Lucina!"_

Her heart hits the floor, and then other voices join Severa's, Morgan's starts shouting orders, and Gerome's echoes, resonates, reaches her bones.

"Risen!"

 _Gods, no. Not now._ Lucina runs, drawing Falchion, memory guiding her through broken, cracked hallways and to the ballroom, the safest, the center of the castle, where nothing could reach them without her knowing—

Minerva's wail of pain pierces the air.

It is a dagger in Lucina's heart, _Where is she; where's Gerome?_ She lets her eyes dart around frantically, finally locating her shadow and his wyvern on a rafter in the darkest part of the ceiling. Minerva is bleeding, bright red pattering to the floor not feet from Lucina's boots. Gerome nods at her, silent and stoic. Minerva wails again, a wail of anger, and drops. Gerome is unfailingly accurate, precise, deadly.

Chaos rages around her. Brady has barricaded himself behind a fallen column, whacking at approaching Risen with the crystal on his staff. Severa and Kjelle are back-to-back, alternating stabs and slices in a slowly rotating circle. Morgan and Owain are side-by-side, being forced toward a wall, Owain's sword not enough, even combined with Morgan's spells. Cynthia glides low over the Risen's heads, jabbing and poking, her Pegasus whinnying shrilly. Noire is atop Brady's column, firing onetwothree arrows into the throng. Nah and Yarne run laps in dizzying circles, transformed and wailing. Jets of flame pour from Nah's mouth. Inigo slides with expertise and finesse through the waves, slicing and stabbing. Laurent appears suddenly next to Brady, Arcfire scorching Risen to ash.

Blood coats everything, everyone. Lucina does not know where to look, who to help first. Her hand closes tight, firm around Falchion's hilt. _Grant me victory, Naga. Help me, Father. Help me protect them. If I lose a single one…_

Her heart is in her ears, in her fingertips, and Falchion hums Mother's lullaby as she swings it. Help Brady and Laurent first, clear them a circle. Falchion sings blood onto the stones. Slide in next to Severa, touch her shoulder, nod at Kjelle, swing. Sing, Falchion. Twirl to Morgan, blink, smile, raise a hand to Owain. _Sing for me, Falchion._ Repeat, protect, keep them alive. Be their Exalt, be their beacon. It is a deadly dance, a terrifying tango.

… _Sing for me._

The Risen cease their advance. At last. Lucina stops, the red coating her vision fading like a healing wound. She breathes. Her friends breathe. Falchion is red, black, dripping _patter patter_ on the marble. She breathes. Brady says something; she misses it. She… she can't breathe. She… _Naga, no._

" _Lucina!"_

Someone catches her. Their eyes are eerily blue, like they're a monster.

* * *

 _Lucina is fifteen, and she has two shadows._

 _Morgan at her side is no surprise; he is thirteen and powerful and terrified, lightning in his storm-cloud eyes. Gerome, however, is unexpected. He is sixteen and stoic and terrifying, wearing the mask he donned the day Cherche died. His axe is half his size, wicked and cold and always, always accurate. Gerome never misses. Gerome doesn't fail, doesn't fall._

 _Gerome pledged her his protection, promised her his life. Lucina's not sure what it means, but he's… safe. He's good. Gerome stays. He and her brother ground her, lighten the weight of Falchion, which she carries with less struggle, now._

 _It is because she has seen combat. She has seen war and blood and death at the age of fifteen, and it makes Aunt Lissa so very sad. But Lucina has her shadows. She will be alright. She will do whatever it takes to ensure Morgan will not suffer her same fate._

 _Morgan follows her around the campsite._

 _Gerome follows her to war._

 _They have an understanding. She knows how to work with Minerva and weave through his axe swings, and he knows to guard her left side, because Falchion cannot protect all of her. He speaks little, but she doesn't need him to. She doesn't smile often, and he nods, like he understands._

 _He called himself a lone wolf once, a hand on Minerva's shoulder. She told him she didn't understand. Wolves were loyal to no one. He might have smiled._

 _She asks him about the mask. He dodges the question; Minerva_ whuffs, _billows steam. He rests his forehead on the wyvern's, murmurs to her. Lucina reclines against the stable door and doesn't press the issue. If Gerome wants to speak, he will. If he wants to tell her, he will. She knows him well enough not to force it out of him._

 _She does wonder, though, if his eyes are still as blue as she remembers them, years ago._

… _He's staring at her. From the corner of his eye, the slit in the mask, but she can tell. Her hand falls to Falchion, traces the hilt. It makes her think of Father, and she pushes the thought away before her chest pinches any tighter._

"… _Why?"_

 _Lucina flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder, surprised by the low tone of his voice. "…Why what?"_

" _Why do you care?"_

" _Because I'm still trying to understand you."_

"… _Should you?"_

" _I think I should, yes."_

" _Mm."_

… _He never answers her question._

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and she has twelve shadows.

"Brady! Is she okay? Is she going to be alright?" …Has Cynthia always been so loud? There's a noncommittal _hmph_ from her left in response.

"I ain't gonna be able ta heal her and talk at the same time, Cynthia," Brady grumbles, his words choppy and accented, just as she remembers. But he sounds… concerned. Lucina can feel it. Cynthia "oh's" from a distance away, and falls silent. The cool tingle of healing magic wraps itself around her midsection, growing icy until it prickles and stings.

… _Two, out of twelve._

"W-why didn't she t-tell someone she was hu-hurt?" Noire stammers, and Lucina can hear the tremor in her voice. This time, too, she knows it's not just Noire being… _Noire_. Brady snorts, maybe he chuckles. It sounds forced, pulled tight against his teeth. The ice stops.

"I ain't in her head!"

… _Three, out of twelve._

Is she bleeding? From where? How much, how badly? She can't die… she refuses to. Not to a handful of Risen, not now. She has things left unfinished, so much she still wants to accomplish, so much still to achieve. But she can't seem to open her eyes. That takes an incredible amount of strength she suddenly doesn't possess. Her heart hiccups, _rum pum patter's_ against her ribs. Weak. She's weak. Gods, no… If there's one thing she knows, it's that she can't be weak.

"Reckless idiot," Severa huffs, puffing a sigh into the stillness. But the word shakes. There's the sound of someone's boot on the marble, matching her flighty heartbeat.

… _Four, out of twelve._

There's murmuring to her left, too distant to fully comprehend. Five voices, though, so…

… _Nine, out of twelve._

Lucina wants to move. Gods, she wants to open her eyes, but they're so incredibly heavy, and everyone's voices are growing muffled, muted, like they're coming through layers of cotton. She struggles to stay awake, clings to consciousness like a lifeline. Brady breathes, inhale exhale, and the ice on her stomach shudders.

"Don't hurt yourself, we need you too." Nah's voice is raspy with something like pain, dull and distant and soft.

"You… blood, Nah! Don't… ye can't not tell me these things!"

… _Ten, out of twelve. Heal her, Brady. Help her…_

A hand takes hers, closes gently around her fingers, pries Falchion from her grip. _Not… no, don't… give it back_ … but she can't move. "Can't fight a wound with steel. She's stopped bleeding; help Nah. I have her."

"But I…"

There's a low sigh, resonating through her. _"Go."_

… _Eleven, out of twelve._

Another hand slides behind her head, supporting it because she can't seem to lift it on her own. Her eyes still won't open, but the fingers on her scalp are thin and sure, and she knows them, down to her core. "…Couldn't get to him fast enough. Slippery bastard."

 _Gerome._

"…Hope you realize you're not allowed to die." He bends a bit closer to her, saddle oil and steel and smoke _._ "The war would end right there."

So many expectations, being Exalt of a dead kingdom. A lost cause. Lucina is then relieved her eyes are closed, able this way to avoid Gerome's intense, shadowed gaze. She forces her lungs to continue breathing, and something _burns,_ sings a line of pain down her side. Her heart jumps, scorched, and she gasps. A hand lands on her waist, pressing hard against her skin. Gerome's gauntlet-enclosed palms are frigid, a jolt to her senses like the magic.

"Brady…! Luc…. She's _bleeding again."_ Her name sticks in Gerome's throat, like it scares him. Maybe she does. The idea of losing her clearly does.

Their only healer's voice sounds thick, lost and exhausted. "I'm one guy, wyvern-boy! I… I'm _sorry…"_

"She is… _dying, Brady."_

"Ya think I'm blind? Ya think I don't _know that?!"_ The words crack. "I… I ain't on the level she needs. I don't got the magic."

A rustle of fabric falls at her side, picks up her other hand. "Lucina… you can't… not you, too. Please don't do this to me. Brady… Please!"

 _Oh, Morgan. Thank the Gods._

 _…Twelve, out of twelve. Good._

"I… don't got the magic! I just don't! Ma never got that far…!" A painful silence follows. Lucina feels the desperation in the room like a thirteenth presence. Gerome brushes a stray lock of hair out of her face that she hadn't even felt until his fingers graze her cheek. It's the gentlest he's ever been.

…So _much_ she has left to say, left to do, left to understand. " _Fight,_ Lucina. Endure. Succeed. Triumph." His lips are near her ear, in her hair. The hand beneath her head twitches, shakes. Gerome… Gerome is _shaking._

Naga… please. No. Not now, not here, not… _She can't abandon them… She can't._

Morgan has started to cry; she can hear his sobs wrack his shoulders. Faint, but tragic, shuddering breaths. Gods… she _can't._ She refuses. No. They can't have her yet. She will not allow herself to see her parents again, not right now. Later… but not now. She has responsibilities _here_. Her friends, the survivors, the children of war… they need her. Gods, they _need her._

Naga… _please._

Her vision explodes into white light.

* * *

 _Lucina is eighteen, and the castle burns._

 _Only five of Father's Shepherds are still alive. Lon'qu is a wall on her left, Gerome a wall on her right. In the valley beneath them, flames lick the sky. Retreat had been their last remaining option, if any of them were going to live. Grima screams war and death into the stones, shaking the earth._

 _Blood drips from three blades, wicked in the dying sun. The hair around Lon'qu's temples is grey, stress and war. Gerome's expression is ice. Lucina's gathered more about his emotions behind that infernal mask, little twitches of his lips or pulls at his cheeks. Now, though, stone. She hasn't the slightest idea what he's thinking… though it's likely similar to her._

 _They're losing. The Grimleal, the Risen, they're too strong. The Fell Dragon simply has too much power. Lucina's sword hand starts to twitch, and no amount of concentration makes it cease. Gerome slides a little closer to her, only a breath away, until their knuckles are touching. Still ice, still a wall, constant and sure._

 _Her hand stops shaking._

 _Her home still burns._

 _Lon'qu twirls his Killing Edge between his fingers, fluid and practiced, an art. Behind him, Noire sighs, gasps. "F-Father… what do we do?"_

 _He chuckles, lowly, deeply, looks at Lucina out of the corner of his eye. She meets his stare. Lon'qu… laughing. The world really is ending. He's broken, though, she can tell; there's no light in his eyes at all as they appraise her, several inches shorter than him. He bleeds from small wounds on his arms, shoulders, and a long, shallow scratch on his cheek. "…I am not Exalt, Noire."_

 _The words rend her in two. Gods. She's… She's Exalt. She's too young to be Exalt, still. Turning her gaze back to the valley, she watches Grima sunder her home, her hopes, to pieces._

 _She turns to her comrades, her friends. They are tired. They are wounded, and bleeding. "We are not in condition to fight, now. We'll only lose more friends. We must retreat, and build our strength. Vengeance can come later, when we are strong."_

 _Lon'qu hmphs, as if he agrees, before sheathing his blade and inclining his head to her. And when he walks, the remainder of their army walks, too. Some of them nod, some of them smile at her, just barely. Lucina joins the procession, Gerome still to her right. He stares straight ahead, but is still close enough to touch her._

 _"Gerome?"_

 _"Mm. Thinking." Minerva wheels overhead, silent and shining against the blood-red sky._

 _"Will you tell me what about?" She turns her head to the string of her army, moving away from the flames. The line is so fragile, so small. She'll be back, for her home, for her family, for her life. Falchion is once again heavy in its sheathe. Gerome makes a noise somewhere low in his throat—it might be a laugh. She's not sure._

 _"Just… you have no idea how much we need you." His voice is serious, dark, the words puncture straight through her._

 _"How much…" She blinks, shakes blue locks from her eyes. Gerome's hand brushes hers as they continue._

 _"You're all they have left, Lucina." He risks a glance to the sky, the sun, his wyvern. "…All_ we _have left."_

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and she is fairly certain she is dead.

Distantly, she can still feel Gerome's hand underneath her head. Distantly, she can still hear Morgan crying. Distantly, she can still smell smoke and steel and blood and saddle oil. Distantly, she can still feel her body, still believe she can move. Distantly, she is livid. Distantly, her silent heart aches.

But presently, the world around her is white. Pale, blinding, bright, and very, very _empty._

She cannot move. She floats, she… _exists,_ but she cannot move.

…Distantly, more voices join Morgan's sobs. _Gods…no, please. No._ She has never felt so helpless, so lost. Father…. Mother… Someone. Please.

The woman's voice seems to fill the space around her, answers her, warms her from the crown of her head to her toes. _"Welcome, Child. I have foreseen your arrival."_

Her lips don't work. She cannot speak. The voice sighs, echoing and light. _"I know, Child. It is too soon. Far, far too soon."_ The outline of a woman forms in front of her, tall and elegant, hair a spindling, ivy-green forest down her back. The hem of her robes floats above the ground, as do the tips of her toes, and she is aglow with life and light, raw, pure power an echo in the air.

Lucina knows immediately who she is. _Naga…_

" _My Child, you are not fated to die here. It is not the destiny I have chosen for you. I, instead, offer you a choice,"_ Naga says, and sharp winds whistle through the vacant space, not felt but heard like piercing cries of joy.

Whatever she wishes, Lucina will agree, to live. Just to live, to see Morgan again, to continue fighting, to speak to Gerome, her friends, everyone. She has to live; she wants to live. Naga laughs, and it is a bell.

" _Such hope, little one. It is the most powerful thing one can possess. What I ask of you will not be easy, and shall require more beyond your blade to achieve. It is the last remaining power I have to offer, so accept and wield it with care, and do not falter in your resolve. Success will mean peace and prosperity, but also tears. Failure… will lead only to darkness."_

But there is darkness enough in the world already. Lucina knows she will accept, she must. There is simply no other way, whatever the task may be. The wind pierces her, now, feeling rushing back to her limbs. Naga's voice fills her ears as cold, sharp _power_ coils through her veins, repeating lines of hope and will, light and life.

" _Your journey shall begin tomorrow, for there is no time. Answers you shall find, little one, in the bonds of the past. It is the last place yet untouched by darkness and strife. Defeat Grima there, before he rises too far, for there, light still reigns."_

There… Father and Mother are still alive.

* * *

 _Lucina is twenty, and she just wants her parents back._

 _Sitting on a rock a safe distance from camp, on watch, she simply… breathes. The circle around the campfire behind her is somber, just the low tones of Owain's voice as he tells some tall tale as a distraction. Lucina catches snatches of it as she lets her eyes wander the length of the valley, but the pieces don't form anything coherent._

 _Her eyes flick up to the moon, the pale disk silent and cold, though full and bright. Sighing, she traces the details on Falchion's hilt with an absent finger. "Father? Tell me what I'm supposed to do… please. How do I lead them… to their deaths? That's all I am currently accomplishing… sending all of them to war too young and too soon."_

 _Smoothly, she unsheathes the blade and rests it across her lap, the moonlight throwing her reflection back at her. The Exalt Brand in her left eye accosts her from the metal. Her heart clenches in her chest. This… this doomed world is all her legacy as Exalt will ever be. This is the fate of Ylisse beneath her rule: fire and ruin. "Father… I'm so sorry. I'm… failing…" She lets the pain take her, lets it crawl and seep through the cracks in her resolve._

 _Still, though, she does not cry. Perhaps she's run out of tears, perhaps they've gone dry from disuse. She could cry for everything they've lost; Gods, she'd like to, but… she can't. Wouldn't do to have the Exalt fall apart._

 _Turning her head just slightly, she catches sight of her friends, her survivors, assembled in a loose half-circle around Owain. Her cousin is angled toward the fire, shadows fragmenting his serious expression. Her friends all bear scars, bandages, blood dried and stuck to armor and fabric. Wounds Brady wasn't powerful enough to heal completely stare back at her, remind her of what she is doing, what she still has to lose._

 _Gods… what_ is _she doing? Who does she think she is? …A smile shatters the corner of her lip. She's the Exalt. They, by whatever doomed laws still exist in this apocalypse, must obey her. Though she knows it's out of some sense of loyalty that they do… and she doesn't fully understand that._

 _Why do they possibly—_

 _A shadow, quiet but prominent, appears to her right. Her hand clenches around Falchion, but it's only instinct, honed by war. Gerome sits close, but not too close, just near enough that Lucina is aware of his stuttered, hitching breaths. One archer… one archer too many and she'd almost lost him._

"… _Still think I'm their last hope?" she asks him bitterly, softly, her heart in her throat and in her steel, bleeding._

 _A thick silence lingers before he speaks, and Lucina knows if she could see his eyes they would be bright. "Tell me, princess," he hisses around pain, "would I still be here if I didn't believe that?"_

" _No…" she breathes, the word untying a knot. "You wouldn't."_

" _And do you think Mother and Father stayed after Lord Chrom died because they didn't believe that?"_

" _No…"_

" _And do you really think they— " he jerks his head in the direction of the campsite "—have any less faith in you?"_

"… _No."_

" _So why do you ask?"_

 _Her hands start to shake, Falchion swaying slightly from its careful balance on her knees. Why…? Why… She's too young to be Exalt… too inexperienced. She's killing her friends, they could all die at any moment…_

" _Because I'm terrified, Gerome!" She nearly shouts it at him, and he tips his head at the words, moonlight turning his hair to liquid silver. "I'm terrified I'll send one of you to your death, or all of you, because you listen and you do not question me… and I… I…"_

"… _I know," Gerome says lowly, ceasing her stammering. "We all do. And that, that is why we follow. Because you lead, you do not order. You are terrified, and that is what makes you strong." He leans a bit closer to her, the cooling hint of healing magic still in the air around him. "Or that is why I follow, at least, why I cut down any who dare stand in your way."_

 _Lucina smiles at him, just a little, silver-blue in the moonlight. "…And why you take arrows meant for me?" Her eyes drop to the bandages, faintly crimson, accusing her._

" _Mm." He leans back again, resting his weight against her rock and pulling his axe into his lap to sharpen. "Something like that."_

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and she is fairly certain she lives.

Her eyes are no longer heavy, and she opens them slowly, like massive ballroom doors. The ceiling is shadows, dark and swathed in black. Her hearing returns next; Morgan's tears occupy the space to her right. She flexes her fingers, loose and tense. Morgan gasps.

"Lu…Luci! You… how? Oh, Naga! How?"

"…Hello, Morgan."

Her brother tosses himself forward and buries his face in her shoulder. "Don't… please don't ever do that to me again. I… didn't know what I was going to do…"

Lucina wraps her arms around Morgan's back, just… holds him, like she used to when they were younger. His entire body is shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The room bursts into noise. "Lucina! You're alive!"

"Her quest for justice shall never cease! I told you!"

"The quantifiable likelihood was zero. Incredible…"

"She's… wha? Some kinda miracle, gotta be."

"We thought you were gone." Gerome's voice rises behind her, a little tighter, a little deeper, and her heart squeezes. "What happened?"

What… what _had_ happened? Morgan pulls out of her arms, scrubbing at his eyes, and stands. Lucina remains sitting, collecting her thoughts. "Naga… I spoke to Naga. She… offered me a choice."

"Ya _what?!_ " Brady demands, crouching next to her and resting his staff on the floor. His eyes dart to her waist, to her wound, and she runs a cautious hand over her skin. Her armor is broken, fabric torn and bloody, but the gouge is healed, nothing more than a faint white line indicating where it had been. "…Ya talked to _Naga…_ "

"…Yes."

Brady's jaw may strike the stones. Morgan crouches next, composed again, though the corners of his eyes are still shiny. "So… What's the choice?" He twines his fingers together and rests his elbows on his knees.

…They're all taking this incredibly well. Lucina sighs. With the war, nothing surprises anyone anymore. She tries to stand, and manages to succeed, though she sways a little. Gerome's fingers appear in the middle of her back, supporting her. Barely touching, like a ghost holds her up, but there.

"She wants to send me to the past. It is the last chance we have, she claims. Stop Grima's rise before it occurs, because we are losing, and we do not have any other options." She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs, long and resigned. "It is either that… or fall."

Silence holds court for a few heartbeats.

Noire is, incredibly, the first to speak. "Sh-she can do th-that?"

"She's _Naga,_ " Brady exclaims, collecting his staff. "Of course she can!"

"Just you?" Morgan asks, hovering a little closer to her. "Or… all of us?"

"I… don't know." Lucina meets his stare. "I just know that I'm leaving. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" A smattering of voices mix and trip over one another.

"What are we going to do without you?" Nah asks, sliding to the front of the group.

That makes Lucina stop. She can't leave them here. They _need_ her.

"We'll join you." Gerome moves to her left, sure and calm once again.

"Wh-What?"

"I will not allow her to face this alone."

The room explodes into discussion. Lucina eyes her shadow. "Are you certain…? Because, in the past… Our parents. They'll be alive, but they won't be ours. Not really." The idea sends a little chill down her spine. Father… Mother… but not, not really. She'd only just let the thought come through.

But Gerome nods. "I work not to make too many attachments." He glances toward Minerva, perched on a pillar, leathery wings spread. "I should return Minerva home, as well."

Oh, Gerome… She turns back to the rest of her friends, watching them all slowly appear to reach a decision. "You're not alone, Lucina. We're going," Morgan says, steel in his eyes.

"…Time to challenge fate, then." Lucina sweeps her gaze over her survivors. "Naga protect us all."

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and that is the oldest she will ever be in this future.

She prepares for her journey to the past by sharpening Falchion, alone. One stroke over the steel, two, three…it is a soothing sound. She thinks of her father, doing much the same, so many years ago…she concentrates instead on her surroundings.

Her old room has been smashed to pieces. Where she sits, the bed is dust, tiny particles litter the floor. The whetstone crosses Falchion's steel in repeating motions, keeping the memories at bay. She's not entirely sure why she's here, it only aches, but some part of her wanted to see it again, one last time. The broken shelves, the dusty, cracked floor, the scorch marks, black-purple bruises on the walls. The door is gone, long shattered. Faint discussion leaks through the opening, unable to leave her friends' voices too far away, though she cannot hope to understand what they are saying.

Gods… the past. Where Mother and Father… are alive, still. They breathe, they exist, they _live._ A place, as Naga had claimed, where light still triumphs. Lucina smiles faintly to herself in the shadows. Such a place possibly exists…

The melody of stone on steel continues, and Lucina loses herself in it. She will not worry, she will not be afraid, she will not stop until she succeeds, no matter what it takes. She will not think about anything else.

"…Lucina?"

The weak light from the hallway torches is lost by a tall, armored shadow. Lucina lets her whetstone slide to a halt. "…Gerome." Explicitly, she had requested solitude, and had it been anyone other than him… "Can I… what do you need?"

The shadow doesn't move from the doorway. Lucina turns to see him fully, giving Falchion a small twirl before returning it to its sheathe. Her eyes flick from his masked gaze to his hands, closed around something. She tips her head. He exhales, long and low and… lost.

"…Gerome?"

"Mm. Be honest with me." He takes a step into the room, letting the torchlight outline him. Lucina stands, too. "Are you afraid of what you will find in the past?" His voice is soft, serious, and Lucina instinctually places a hand on Falchion for comfort.

…Ah. That.

"…About Father, you mean? About… what I could possibly discover?" She takes a deep breath, folds her arms over her chest. "About… choices I may have to make?" She'd considered this, yes. For hours. Frederick believed Father had been betrayed by someone close to him… and a journey to the past could very well expose those secrets. Blood could spill.

Gerome steps into the light from her own torch, his lips together in something like a frown. "Yes. That… and more war."

But what is more war, in the face of this destruction? Lucina toes the splintered bedpost. "Honestly…. Yes. Not of the war, not of the combat, but of… _them._ Of seeing them again." Peering at him from beneath her bangs, she watches his face. "I'm... I don't know if I'm prepared for that."

Gerome nods, slowly, light flickering through his hair. He extends the item in his hands to her, dark, inky fabric like water between her fingers. "This might help."

She unwraps the small bundle slowly, feeling the fragile nature of the object. A mask, thin in its purpose, delicate edges curling from the center into wings, like a butterfly. Rimmed in gold, it winks in the torchlight. She traces the details with a reverent finger. "Gerome… where… where did you get this?"

"Didn't," he says, folding his hands behind his back. "….Made it."

"You… where did you ever find the time?" She rotates it between her hands, admiring the fine detail, the careful workmanship.

"There was plenty." The words are weighted with… _something,_ something that pricks the corner of her heart. "I thought the need for you to conceal you identity might arise." He tips his head at her, and she would suddenly give anything to be able to see his eyes. "Seems I was correct."

Lucina lifts the mask to her eyes, fixing it into place with surprising ease. She meets Gerome's similar stare, his face fragmented by hammered metal. "…Thank you, Gerome."

"Of course." A muscle in his jaw feathers, and he ghosts his fingers over hers before spinning to leave. "Be careful." He is gone before she can reply, the torch flickering wildly with the speed of his departure.

"…I will," she murmurs to the memory of him.

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one, and she faces the past with hopes for the future.

The portal Naga opened is an incredible work of magic, sparkling and crackling with raw, pure energy. It whirls with an ethereal blue glow, stirring long-forgotten flags in the ballroom and tugging on capes and robes. The soft snapping of fabric is, for a moment, the only sound.

Morgan and Gerome stand to either side of her, the others in an arc behind the three of them. Faint murmuring soon permeates the air, whispered concern and barely contained excitement, layered with fear. Lucina understands all too well. Morgan leans closer to her, his voice just barely louder than her heartbeat.

"This… this is going to work. It has to."

She nods, slowly, eyeing the portal, the last of Naga's power, the last of their chances for success. A sigh escapes her, and she turns to Morgan, the mask over her eyes making him divided, broken by lines of shadow. She slings an arm around his shoulders, hugs him, swiftly. "It will. We lack any other choices." He nods, smiles, just a little. Completing her turn and letting him go, she soon faces the rest of her friends. Silence falls.

"We _will_ see each other again, soon. I don't know how soon, but I will not allow anyone to go unfound. Use your skills and keep your heads, no matter what awaits. Naga watch over you all."

Cheers and voices of agreement rise to reach her ears. She swallows, spins back to the portal. Gerome catches her hand, briefly, before releasing it. "Good luck," he murmurs, their hidden eyes meeting. "I will await our reunion."

Lucina nods, new determination rushing through her. "As will I."

The portal crackles, expectant, waiting. Morgan nudges her in the shoulder. "After you, Luci."

She draws Falchion, letting the blade give her strength, before stepping into the swathe of blue light. The last thought she has is that she will not cry.

* * *

Lucina is twenty-one… and so is Father.

The clang of steel on steel rings through her, shuddering her bones. Just arrived, and already she had to draw her blade. War, it seems, never ends.

… _Risen_ , even here, even now… even _then._ But her experience and her skill do not evaporate so quickly, and the battle is short. The last Risen evaporates into violet smoke, splattering the ground with violet blood. Father breathes, stares at her. His eyes, Morgan's eyes, are exactly the same, storm clouds wide with shock.

She vows not to shake as she steps away from Aunt Lissa, younger than her, quaking with fear behind her staff. _Father… alive…_ but no. Not really, not at all. Not him. She is eternally grateful for Gerome's mask as she meets his oh-so-familiar stare, hiding the pain.

"Quite an entrance…" he says lowly, dangerously, because she is an enigma, not his daughter. Falchion remains loose in his hand, easily able to end her should he choose to. He twirls it, once. "What's your name?"

She almost says _hers,_ it balanced on the tip of her tongue, so familiar. _…Father._ But she angles her head, places a hand on her own Falchion to hide the details. He'll recognize the sword in a heartbeat. Her own hammers against her chest as she blinks at him, thinking. His eyes narrow, Falchion spinning through his fingers again. Aunt Lissa moves a little closer to him. "…Well?" he asks.

There are so many things she wants to say… but now is not the time. Now requires investigation, the exact _here and now and why…_ and neither of them can know yet. Much as it aches. Her fingers close tighter around the sword at her hip. Such begins her adventure. Alone.

"You… may call me Marth."


End file.
